


Damn Fine Warden

by NorroenDyrd



Series: By Happy Fault of Fate [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blackwall Spoilers, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Guilt, Heart-to-Heart, Mentor/Protégé, POV Blackwall, Self-Doubt, Support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 13:04:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: Having recently arrived at Skyhold, Felix tries his best to master combat training under a senior Grey Warden. Except that somehow, he doesn't sense the Taint in him. Could he as much of a failure as a Warden as he was as a mage?





	Damn Fine Warden

In a long since habitual, mechanic motion, Blackwall raises the wooden club he has been using for training, and prepares to prod his young sparring partner in the shoulder - not forcefully enough to leave a bruise, but still allowing him to feel some pain, and to understand where he has left himself dangerously exposed to incoming attacks. He might have even added some little lecture, the way Cullen does, 'If I was a hurlock, you'd be dead', or something... But, what with his history, the boy does not really need extra reminders of that.  
  
And regardless: this time, the club does not even reach the fledgling Warden, meeting the wall of a square, lightweight training shield along the way, with a small wooden thunk. The boy peeks out at Blackwall from behind his protective cover and beams at him, his brown eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and glee.  
  
'I did it, didn't I?' he asks breathless, shoving the shield a little way forward in a rather tentative imitation of a bash. 'I actually managed to block a blow!'  
  
His gaze darts up and down Blackwall's face, silently seeking approval. This makes the older man take in a small, abrupt breath of air, as his innards seem to be pulled into a tight, painful knot, at the recollection of the letter that the young Warden carried with him when he showed up at Skyhold, rather overdramatically  interrupting his father's judgement (much to Varric's delight).

 

  
_Warden-Constable Blackwall,_  
  
_I do not believe I have ever had the honour of meeting you personally, as my duties as Queen of Ferelden and the ongoing quest to cure the Calling often limit my interactions with the rest of our Order. I have, however, heard only the best things about you (and do not even get my husband started on the story of how you earned those Silverite Wings of Valour!). Thus, I entrust this newest recruit in your capable hands. Hearing out his story has made me even more determined to seek a way to combat the Taint, so I am taking to the road again - but I am convinced that this little impromptu alliance between the Wardens and the Inquisition is a sound beginning of a noble shared mission. I have sent word to Deputy Commander Howe, and he will be happy to render assistance in any way he can._  
  
_Good luck!_  
  
_Warden Commander Tamara Cousland-Theirin, Quern of Ferelden, etc. etc. (We have misplaced the royal seal again, so pretend that this squiggle is it. I am sure Leliana will confirm that this is my writing, in case you worry about impostors)._

 

  
Ironic that Her Majesty should say that... Ironic - and very disconcerting.  
  
This young man, this Warden - an actual Warden, saved from the Blight sickness by an actual Joining - has been assigned to train under his guidance. He is supposed to shape this awkward, confused lad (what was he before this whole mess again? A university student?) into a real warrior, capable of fighting off the evils of the world and doing the Inquisition proud... Which is not unfamiliar to him, in and of himself; it's not like he has never before gone around teaching younglings to tell the hilt of the sword from the pointy end. But Maker's balls, the way he looks at him... The way he trusts him...  The way he so obviously expects the older man's, er, Warden-ness to rub off on him... Sometimes it is too much. Sometimes, if he looks the boy in the eyes long enough, Blackwall can feel a helpless, shattering scream mount within him, as the blasted, glaring coin of the sun, rolling relentlessly across the sky overhead, further shortens the time he has left before... Before they all know.  
  
It takes him some effort to drag himself back to reality and force a smile.  
  
'That you did, pup,' he says genially, taking a step back to look the boy over from head to foot with that approving expression that he has been waiting for so eagerly. 'That you did'.  
  
Still, something about his voice must have sounded a bit off, because the young Warden frowns and asks, lowering his shield,  
  
'Are you quite all right, Ser Blackwall?'  
  
'No need for "sers", thank you very much,' Blackwall responds, with a small chuckle (which comes out a bit more naturally... Or so he hopes, at least). 'But we could take a break for a bit. Here...'  
  
He leans over the flimsy wooden railing that encircles their sparring spot, and reaches for his belonging, which he dumped in a messy pile before getting down to training.  
  
'You must have worked up quite a thirst. Have a drink out of my flask. Don't worry, it's water'.  
  
The boy catches the large, round, dusty flask when Blackwall tosses it to him, the liquid inside making a brief, muffled slosh - but he does not drink. He just sort of... freezes up in hesitation, fingers clasped tightly round the flask and gaze wandering somewhere past it.  
  
Blackwall's forehead crinkles. It is easy to forget, with the pup being so polite and considerate - but he and that flashy, preening Lord Dorian come from the same stock. Tevinter nobles. The most high and mighty of them all.  
  
'What?' Blackwall says, a little testily. 'Afraid my peasant spit got mixed in somehow?'.  
  
'Oh,' the boy starts and clears his throat uncomfortably, instantly making Blackwall regret his annoyed remark.  
  
'Oh, no, not at all - I was just... I was just thinking... What if it is broken somehow? My Warden sense, I mean?'  
  
Blackwall's heart falls. Maker, this is getting more trying by the minute. Even... Even more so than trying to come up with a vague, seemingly knowledgeable answer when the Inquisitor asks him to assess the number of Darkspawn lurking in a cave somewhere. The boy... He is asking him - he is asking Blackwall for proper, Warden-related advice. Damn. Damn!  
  
'How do you mean?'  
  
At any rate, Blackwall thinks this is the question that squeezes out, hoarse and gulping, out of his mouth.  
  
'When I asked her how she knew I was sick when we met in Redcliffe, the Queen told me that I should be able to get this... feeling when some creature carrying the Blight comes along,' the young Warden explains tentatively, picking at the lid of the flask with his index finger. 'Like darkspawn - or other Wardens. I cannot remember for sure if I could detect the Blight in her, because I was still recovering from the Joining... But ever since I came to Skyhold, I have not been able to feel anything. Though I should, shouldn't I? When you are around, I mean. But talking to you - it feels exactly like talking to any other person. I don't get any... aura sensations or whatever it is supposed to be. No more than when I am around Dorian, or Seeker Pentaghast, or my father, or the Inquisitor'.  
  
Of course you don't, Blackwall says bitterly to himself. They aren't Wardens. And neither am I. I have been lying to you, pup; lying through my teeth. Your trust in me, your respect towards me - it is all misplaced. I thought I could earn it, I thought I could prove myself worthy if you turned out to be worthy under my mentorship... But how can I be a mentor to a Warden recruit if I don't even know how the bloody Warden senses work? I...  
  
Maker knows what might have spilled out of Blackwall's mouth if they lingered just a moment more in silence. But at this moment, the boy speaks again, his voice quiet and sincere.  
  
'Please look here, Ser Blackwall. I want to show you something'.  
  
With that, he uncorks the flask and hovers his hand over it, letting tiny droplets float upwards, glittering among his fingers like jewelled rings.  
  
'This is as much magic as I have ever been able to muster,' he says, his voice cracking slightly when he turns to meet Blackwall's gaze. 'Toddler level. Maybe... Maybe it's my destiny to be so... deficient? The son of a magister who cannot cast a single complex spell; and now, a Warden who cannot even sense the Blight... Maybe I...'  
  
The crack in his voice deepens, mirrored in Blackwall's heart. And when he gives the boy an answer, leaning in and resting one hand on his shoulder, there is no lie in what he says.  
  
'I may be just a soldier, far from a big expert on Warden lore - but I do know one thing. You are not broken. Don't even dare think of yourself this way. There's more to being a Warden than some mystic... built-in darkspawn finder. Being a Warden is about doing what's right. About helping people. And you have been doing exactly that since the Inquisition met you. Shit, if it weren't for you, Redcliffe would have been still overrun by your... by the Venatori, the free mages would have joined Corypheus, and poor Cadash might not have even been born!'  
  
The earnestness in Blackwall's words seems to reassure the young Tevinter.  
  
'Well, if you put it that way...' he mutters. 'I guess there will still be time for me to figure out my own abilities. And you really think I will make a good Warden?'  
  
'A damn fine Warden,' Blackwall tells him fervently. 'A finer Warden than I will ever be'.


End file.
